These days I explode all over the ones I love An Italian wood burning fire stove sourdough hand rolled mess Fresh and spread, for the satisfaction of the tip of a tongue and sleepless nights rolling around in bed. These days I catch myself writing for my unborn...

It was X’s birthday And I was hurting. Dear morning spit spitter I see you, and your blue eyes A freezing burn Scalding of the skin. Spit spit spitter Better a slap or a kick Than the spit That flew out of your face and down My neck Hot spit like spice Crashing in...